


Writing on the Wall

by katybaggins



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katybaggins/pseuds/katybaggins
Summary: HLV. Sherlock has come to say goodbye to his pathologist before going off on his exile and discovers, to his shock, that he's actually in love with her. How is he going to go off to die in six months when he's just realized this? Why should he? (After all, CAM totally had it coming.) So he convinces Molly to run off with him.





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TribulationPeriwinkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TribulationPeriwinkle/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this story I was inspired by "Writing's on the Wall" by Sam Smith, hence the story title :)

As a rule, most people would not willingly choose solitude or confinement  However, even if they initially did not like the idea, they can actually benefit from them. For some, they can easily use the time for reflection and contemplation - a time of preparation for what comes next. For others, the results can be far more disastrous. In the case of Sherlock Holmes, solitary confinement was the equivalent of locking him up with a crate of dynamite.

Or, in other words, his worst enemy. While it would be easy to say that his resting drug addiction which seemed to raise its head at times of great stress, his tendency to throw himself into dangerous and life-threatening situations, and his inability to keep some of his ruder comments to himself fit that description perfectly it would also be incorrect. His true enemy was nothing more and nothing less than those demons that lurked in the darkness of his own mind. When he was alone, they always drew themselves out of hiding to torment him.

He wasn’t oblivious to this, of course. He knew that now, as he sat in his cell in one of the most secure prisons in London, awaiting his punishment for shooting Charles Magnussen, it would be far too easy to let them.

And what would that accomplish?

Nothing, absolutely nothing. Instead of engaging in futile “what ifs” and destructive patterns of thought, he would go to the one person in his mind that he knew could help:

Molly Hooper.

_He went to her room in his mind palace, which constantly grew in size whenever he went there, and he quickly lost any delusions of control over the place. Molly herself did, and so she’d decorated the room in her own taste. He considered it a monstrosity of brightly colored comfortable chairs and hideous flowery paper on the walls, but even so it suited Molly. Somehow he wouldn’t change anything about it._

_When he stepped through her open door - because it_ was _always open to him, no matter what mistakes he made with Real Molly. He never fully understood how she could continuously extend forgiveness to him despite his tendency to hurt her, but he credited it to the unending kindness and patience that so characterized Molly Hooper. For a moment, he stopped in the doorway to study her._

_She sat in her cheery yellow chair, a book in her hand, and her cat purring happily in her lap. She must have read something in her book that pleased her because a smile tugged at her lips. To his surprise, he discovered that he was curious to know what she found so amusing. She suddenly stopped reading and glanced up at him, the smile quickly sliding off her face. She set aside her book and gently put her cat on the floor before she walked over to him._

_“What’s wrong?” she said softly. “What happened?”_

_She already knew without one word from him that he wasn’t okay. She always did. “Molly, I-....”_

“Hello, brother-mine.”

His brother’s voice dragged him out of his mind and away from her. To him, Mycroft was a most unwelcome interruption and any quiet Sherlock had found with Molly completely went away with the mere sound of his voice. He pushed himself off the bed with a loud sigh. Politeness dictated some kind of inane prattle response, but he could not stand any trivialities at such a moment. “What now?” he said with a scowl. He had no patience for any stalling, and thankfully his brother did not for once.

“They have decided against prison for you,” Mycroft said. “It was not a viable option considering your choice of career, though I hope you do see the irony in this situation.”

Sherlock Holmes placed in prison with those criminals that he helped put away because he committed a crime himself. Oh, yes, he was fully aware of the irony. He just didn’t care to think about right now. “Yes,” he said shortly. “So what did they decide?”

Mycroft hesitated and the briefest sad look passed across his face. If Mycroft looked sad for even a second, it had to be very bad indeed. He tried as best he could to prepare himself for the worst. But what that could be, he didn’t know. _Molly, I wish you were here_ , he thought. Somehow she made everything more bearable sheerly by her mere presence. “You will be sent on a MI6 undercover assignment in Eastern Europe.”

The phrasing sounded very familiar and his mind quickly put the pieces together. He suddenly felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. “The one that will be fatal in six months.”

His facial expression did not even change as he delivered the horrible news. “Yes. I would understand if you need a moment.”

A moment! He needed much more than a _moment_. How could he possibly even begin to process the fact that he would die in six months? But Mycroft didn’t understand. He never did, because like so many other older siblings Mycroft seemed to be completely incapable of making a mistake large or small. As a result, he never had to deal with the consequences afterward. He, on the other hand, seemed incapable of _not_ making one. Once, when he was a child, he’d accidentally made a mark on the wall with one of his crayons. He’d tried to cover it up - he even came up with many creative solutions, but as it happened the cover-up was even worse than the original mark itself. Even as an adult, he’d never managed to fully free himself of that tendency no matter how hard he tried.

He turned away from his brother and closed his eyes, returning to the one person he needed more than anyone else - the one that _mattered_ more than anyone else.

_Molly materialized in front of him again, wearing the cherry jumper she’d worn when he asked her to help fake his death. She hadn’t moved since he’d left her, but this time he saw even more concern for him in her eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”_

_She’d said those exact words on that fateful night and his response could not be anything other than the same it was then. “Molly, I think….no, I_ am _going to die.” With that beginning, the whole story poured out of him and he didn’t omit a single detail, no matter how dreadful or appalling she might find it. When he finished, he didn’t know exactly what she would say. Unlike others he knew. Molly Hooper had the ability to constantly surprise him both with her words and actions. She stared at the floor and a sigh escaped from her, but he didn’t have the faintest what it meant. Was she angry? Sad? Disgusted? He didn’t think he could bear it if she was. “Molly?”_

_“I heard you, Sherlock,” she said quietly. “But I don’t…” She let out a choked laugh that sounded so unlike her normal one. It caused a strange pain in his chest. “But I don’t even know what to say or how to say goodbye to you knowing that I truly will never see you again.”_

_He didn’t know how to say goodbye to Molly either. Though he would certainly have Mind Palace Molly with him to the end, he would not have the comfort of her physical presence. He would not be able to see her smile at him or hear her laugh. He would not have her unwavering support and acceptance. Suddenly he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes and his own gaze wandered down to his feet. “I can’t….I can’t do….this without you,” he said softly.“I_ need _you.” His own complete honesty startled him, but he didn’t regret telling her the truth. He looked up at her briefly, but she didn’t smile. Instead her small hands reached out and touched his own. Even that faint pressure calmed him more than any cocaine ever did. Instinctively his hands held on to hers._

_“I know,” she said. “You’ve told me before , but I don’t….I’ve never understood quite what you mean.”_

_“I mean that I need you.” He didn’t understand what_ she _meant._

 _“Yes, but_ why, _Sherlock?_ Why _do you need me?”_

_Why did her need her? Did he have to know? Did he have to qualify it? Wasn’t it enough that he did? “I don’t know. You’re my friend. Isn’t that enough?”_

_“Maybe. But you’re thinking with your head.” She touched a curl on his forehead, then the front of his shirt where his heart beat faster beneath her hand. “You need to think here, with your heart.”_

_“Molly-....” he began, though he wasn't sure how he would finish the sentence._

_“You know the answer." She smiled reassuingly, as if she truly believed that he would be able to figure it out. "Just think.”_

_He didn’t have the faintest idea of how to examine his….._ feelings _for Molly. A case, he thought. How would he think about it if it were a case? The facts first._

_Molly was….well, she had the deepest kindness, the most unending patience and the most constant generosity of anyone he’d ever met._

_Unlike many others he knew, he never ran out of topics for conversation with her, even after all those days and nights in the lab._

_She constantly put his comfort above her own, and more times than he could count she’d let him sleep in her own bed._

_She gave him far more space than he ever asked for at her flat._

_She was one of the few people in the world that he could never imagine losing._

_His pulse always seemed elevated whenever she was nearby._

_He couldn’t tell, but perhaps his pupils dilated too._

_Now, if he examined all those facts, and anyone else described them, he would likely come to the conclusion that they were attracted to the person. Could that possibly be it? Could it be that he was attracted to Molly Hooper? But no, mere attraction did not fully describe the emotions he had toward her. The emotions ran far deeper than that. What was the strongest feeling a person could have for another? “Because I….,” he began. “Because I...I love you?” He phrased the sentence as question, but he registered the truth at once. He did. “I love you.”_

He stumbled backward, stunned by his sudden realization. One of his hands clung to the wall so he wouldn’t fall over.

_I love Molly Hooper. I’m in love with her - and I’ve somehow missed it this entire time. How could I miss that? There’s always something._

But he never would have expected that he would learn to love another, and by the time he realized it - which hardly seemed possible before this moment - it had already happened. He could not return to a time when he did not know that he loved Molly, nor he could imagine not loving her.

A literary quotation came to the front of his mind, which truly was a rare occasion and he didn’t recall filing it away. However, the words did fit the situation perfectly:

_What’s done is done and cannot be undone._

Indeed.

“Sherlock?”

In his stupor, he almost forgot Mycroft was even there. He almost forgot that his brother had just told him he would be sent off on a mission that would kill him in six months. How could he possibly do that when he just realized that he loved Molly? Why should he even have to? Magnussen had it coming; he knew that for sure. If he hadn’t been the one to shoot him, probably someone else would. Mycroft called him a dragon-slayer, then criticized him when he did just that. Nothing about this whole situation seemed remotely right or fair, and the beginnings of a plan formed in the back of his mind. “I see. If that’s the case, then I have something I’d like to ask you. A final request, if you will.”

Mycroft could not refrain from visibly flinching, as if the words had physically pained him. Good. He intended it that way because he could not possibly understand why his brother thought it was acceptable to send him off to his death. “What is it?”

“I want to see Molly Hooper before I leave.”

His brother raised an eyebrow at him. “Out of all your friends, you want to see Miss Hooper. Not John Watson, or Mary, not Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson.”

“Yes,” he said. “And it’s _Doctor_ Hooper, if you please.”

Mycroft let out a loud sigh. He tried not to roll his own eyes. Mycroft always acted like he was the drama queen of the family, but his brother had his own flair for theatrics. “Well, I suppose we can have her brought here and -...”

“ _No._ If I must say goodbye to her, then I would insist on a measure of privacy.”

The two of them locked eyes, but he was not about to give in. Not this time. Not when it was something this important.

Finally Mycroft sighed. “If you insist, then I suppose I could arrange a time for you to visit her.”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t know if his barely formed plan would work or not, but he would not let his brother dictate this chapter of his life. He remembered a story his brother told him when he was younger. Actually, he remembered _two,_ and both of them were unpleasant. The first was about an East Wind that that lay siege and plucked the unworthy from the earth. That was usually himself.

The other concerned a merchant who saw Death in a market in Baghdad and tried to outrun him by traveling to Samarra - only to find that Death was waiting for him there. He’d always hated the story, and wrote his own version where the merchant went to Sumatra instead and was fine. He had never felt like the merchant more than he did right now.

But he absolutely refused to have the same fate, not when he just realized he loved Molly. He couldn’t even imagine living without her. He n _eeded_ her - he would always need her and now he knew it was because he loved her and not just because she somehow became the one who mattered the most to him.

He knew it would be a challenge to get away one more time, but when had he shied away from one? When did his life only have one destination with no other options? Yes, he knew that eventually death and Samarra would wait for him, but he could not let it happen now. 

He just couldn't. He had to find a way to Samarra and he would. He owed Molly nothing less.  

* * *

Despite Mycroft's promise, a whole day passed before he came to Sherlock and said everything was set for his visit to Molly. However, he used that time wisely to make up his five point plan:

First, he would not accept his fate blindly and go on the mission.

Second, to evade said mission, his only option was to leave England, to run until Mycroft and his cronies could never find him. It wouldn’t be easy, but he thought he had enough contacts and favors to call in to see him out of the country. He could manage matters from there.

Third, he did not want to do any of it without Molly. It was a natural conclusion, he thought, given that he loved her, to want her to be with him. But in this case it was far from easy since he couldn’t stay in London.

Fourth, since he couldn’t stay in London and he didn’t want to be without Molly, the only solution was to ask her to come with him. Simple enough, but the execution was far from it. He understood perfectly well that asking Molly to come with him on his impromptu trip around the world would also mean that she must give up her entire life here - to give up everything to be with him. It was hardly a fair trade: himself with all his shortcomings in exchange for her job, flat, and friends. But he had to believe that she would be willing. He had to, or he’d never have the courage to ask. He didn’t know what he’d do if she said no: go on his world-wide trip by himself and be….alone. He also didn’t know what he’d do if she said _yes._ Be…..happy, he supposed. A strange sensation, but yes, he’d be happy. Probably happier than he’d ever been in his life and he would not be alone. 

That brought him to five. If Molly _did_ come with him, he could not - _would_ not - let anything happen to her. He would make sure she was always safe, and considering all the multiple countries they’d be in, the easiest way to do that was fill out a certain kind of paper that made it clear that they were bound together in every way, but most importantly legally. He didn’t know how exactly Molly would feel about it. He supposed he could draw up the papers and ask if she would sign it. He realized that it would probably seen rather sudden and unconventional, but he had never been one to do things in the usual way. He also didn’t do anything halfway. If he would be with Molly, he wanted to be completely with her. To him, there didn’t seem to be any point of engaging in all those ritualistic rules of dating. He knew what he wanted and he would never ever find someone better than Molly in the whole world.

When Mycroft did come with the car, they didn’t speak a word to each other. It occurred to him that this might be the last time they’d sit in a car like this. He probably should be remembering perhaps all those good times he had with his brother, but he really had a difficult time thinking of too many. On Christmas Day Mycroft had told him that losing him would break his heart, but then he sent him on a suicide mission. The two of them were incongruous.

“I hope you are taking this seriously, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in that self-important tone that made him want to punch him. “None of your tricks.”

“Yes, yes,” he muttered before he stared out the window. He didn’t particularly care to speak to his brother much more and he would like nothing better than to lose himself in thought.

But Mycroft’s voice dragged him out of his mind once more. “I must admit I am curious, Sherlock. Why Molly Hooper?”

The question was unspoken, yet clear. Why not John Watson? But the answer was absurdly simple, so simple that he would think Mycroft, being the Smart One as he never ceased to announce, could determine it or himself. “Because Molly matters the most,” he said with a brief glance.

With that, he resumed staring out the window while the car drove them to Molly’s home. As they did, his mind repeated a single plea: 

_Say yes, Molly. Please say yes._


	2. Molly

After a productive morning off, Molly had just settled down with a book when she heard a knock at her door. She set it aside with a sigh before she stood up and answered it. Much to her surprise, Sherlock stood there yet she didn’t understand why he was knocking in the first place. She’d given him a key long ago, and often she’d come home from work and find himself sprawled across her couch or sound asleep in her bed. He’d even taken space in her closet for his own clothes and suitcases. He had practically made a second home here and she allowed him to do so out of the love in her heart. But as soon as she saw the pain in his eyes, the deep sadness on his face she knew he wasn’t okay. “Tell me what’s wrong, Sherlock,” she said softly.

His eyes widened as if he couldn’t believe what she’d said. It was only after that look crossed his face that she remembered the last time she’d said it: before his suicide when her whole life had turned upside down. Somehow she had the feeling that her world was about to shift yet again. “Molly, I….”

He broke off to stare at the floor and she bit her lip as worry surged through her. He wasn’t often at a loss for words, so if he couldn’t find them now it had to be something very bad. “What is it?”

He didn’t meet her eyes as he said quietly, “Did you see the news about Charles Magnussen?”

She didn’t pay much attention to the news; it was far too depressing. She really didn't need any extra negativity in her life. But a person would have to live under an actual rock to _not_ hear about Magnussen. Meena wouldn’t stop talking about it the day after it happened. “Yes, he was shot at his home on Christmas Day and -.....” Suddenly everything came together for her and she took a step backward. _"_ Oh god, Sherlock. It was _you_ , wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

Suddenly the small bowl of soup she’d just had for lunch felt like it would come right back up. But she couldn’t crumble now, not when he so obviously needed her. She had to be brave for him. She pasted on the best smile she could muster. “Well, I guess you’re not here to tell me you’re going to Disney World, are you?”

She expected a curt reply like he usually gave her, but instead he glanced at her quizzically. “What?”

“You know, sometimes when big athletes win something, they talk about they’re going to Disney World and -....” She trailed off, realizing that he truly had no idea what she meant at all. “Sorry. I know. ‘Don’t make jokes, Molly.’”

He looked at her then with an expression of such profound sadness that it nearly broke her cheerful facade. “I….I have something…..something very important I need to tell you, Molly,” he said seriously.

She chewed on her lower lip. “Yes, I thought you might,” she said softly. “But let me brew us some tea first. These sorts of talks are always better with tea.”

He nodded, and she opened the door further so he could enter the room. He went to the couch while she brewed the tea as fast as she could. When she came back, he had his face buried in his hands, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He heart shattered to see him that way. As quietly as she could, she set the tea in front of him on the coffee table and sat down herself. She didn’t say a word though. She knew he would talk when he was ready.

Eventually, after a loud sigh, he did. “I had…..reasons for shooting him, Molly.”

He didn’t need to rationalize it. Not to her. She knew that contrary to what people thought, he was no psychopath _or_ sociopath. He would never shoot anyone unless he had no other choice. “Yes, I know.”

He glanced at her with a blank expression.“You do.”

“Yes, of course I do,” she said. “You would never….I can’t imagine you ever doing something like that otherwise. And you don’t….you don’t even have to tell me what it was.”

His next words came slowly, as if he were searching for the right way to say what he wanted. “Of course acting in such a way does not come without...without its consequences.”

“....Yes?”

“In my case, it is a six month long mission.”

“Six months, and then what?”

He looked at her then, and it was all she needed. The end of the mission was death. _His_ death. A loud roar pounded in her ears. “No, Sherlock. Not-....”

“Yes, Molly,” he said. “So I have come to tell you something….something that I only discovered recently and...and to also ask if you will do something for me.”

“Sherlock, you know you can ask me anything," she said, trying to smile. He managed to smile briefly at her, though the tortured expression in his eyes did not vanish. She wondered what would. "So what is it?”

“Facing...facing death like this causes a person to rethink certain aspects of their life,” he said. “And for me, I found that I thought about us quite a bit.”

 _Us?_ “Well, we’re friends, of course,” she said. “But I don’t -....”

She didn’t finish her sentence because he was shaking his head, which she frankly did not understand. “No, Molly. We’re not.”

“We _are_ friends,” she said firmly. “I know that you didn’t always like that word, but your presence here-....”

“No,” he broke in again. “I mean, yes, we’re friends, but that’s not...that’s not what I wanted to tell you.” He stopped and shook his head. “This was much easier with Mind Palace Molly,” he mumbled.

“Mind Palace Molly?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Yes, I have a version of you in my head that I….I consult on certain occasions.” The thought of Sherlock talking to his own version of her in his mind pleased her more than it probably should, but he must find her presence helpful if she lived in his mind palace. She wondered if she had a room there and what it looked like. “Anyway, that isn’t….that isn’t necessarily pertinent to what I want to say now," he continued. "Molly, you know that I’ve told you that you...you matter the most to me.”

She did. She remembered it clearly, but she still had difficulty understanding why. It seemed incomprehensible that _she_ mattered the most to him. “Yes, I know, Sherlock.”

“I used to believe that this...this was because I needed you more than perhaps some of my other friends, but I have since changed my mind.”

“Okay….” _What?!_

He took a deep breath before he gazed at her, his eyes boring into hers. As she met them with her own, she felt as if she stood upon a precipice: whatever he said next would truly turn her world upside down. "You matter the most, Molly, because I think of you...in a different capacity than anyone else I know and it is not as merely my friend.”

In a different capacity? Not merely his friend? What could he….OH. She shut her eyes briefly, wondering if she was possibly hallucinating this entire conversation. Because he couldn’t mean what she thought, he just couldn’t. She was probably tired from all those long shifts or she’d read too many romance novels because it couldn’t possibly be that Sherlock was trying to tell her in his own way that he loved her. “Are you truly saying what I think you are?” she said quietly, staring at her couch cushions.

She managed to look at him and he blinked repeatedly at her. “I-....I don’t know. If you think that what I’m trying to say is that I love you, then you would be correct in that assumption.”

And there it was, the three words that changed everything forever after. The three words that she’d so desperately wanted to hear from him, but feared she never would. But in all her imaginings and daydreams she’d never imagined he’d say it right before he had to leave on a death mission. She never imagined that something she’d wanted so desperately could make her heart ache with unfathomable sadness at the same time. Not for one second did she think that he was lying to her or playing some kind of game. He meant it, and somehow that made this all far more difficult. She suddenly stood up and walked away from him, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, god,” she muttered. She tried to hold them back, but a tear slipped from her eye followed by another and another. Soon she was sobbing, despite all her efforts, and she wanted to smack herself because she promised herself that she’d be strong for him - and here she was blubbering like an idiot.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder. “I am so sorry, Molly,” he said quietly. “I realize my timing is far from ideal, and I would completely understand if you didn’t feel the same. After all, I am hardly -.....”

As soon as she realized that she loved him, Molly had made a promise to herself that she would never say I love you to him unless he said it to her first. It had been a challenge, because sometimes the words crawled up in her throat and begged to be released. But she wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t be that kind of girl - the kind of girl who would throw herself at a guy. But now….now he had said it to her. Now she was free to say the words she’d buried in her heart for so long. “I will always love you, Sherlock,” she whispered. She turned to face him, and he slowly blinked at her, but there was no mistaking the hint of happiness in his eyes at her words.

“Good, I am-....that’s good,” he said awkwardly. “But I can’t...I can’t seem to bear the idea of leaving you now, Molly.”

“I can’t bear the idea of you leaving either,” she said honestly. It felt so wonderful to finally say all that she had been feeling so deep in her heart for such a long time. “But what other choice do we have?”

He took a deep breath before he responded. “Run.”

“What?”

“Run,” he said again. “I refuse to let Mycroft dictate my life, Molly, and I am not going to die in six months. So the only option is to leave. To run, and I would much prefer to do that with you.”

She looked into his eyes, and she knew that he meant every word he said. He was serious about running and he’d already made up his mind. It was pointless to argue with him. “But how-....?”

“I do have resources at my disposal that are entirely separate from my brother,” he said with a grim smile. “I believe I have enough favours to call in to see us out of England.”

“And then what?” she asked. “Could we ever come back?”

“I...I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t figured that part out yet. Will you...will you come, Molly?”

Her mouth opened and closed without saying a single word, and she shut her eyes briefly before she tried again. The answer should be simple and it was….and it wasn’t at the same time. If she said yes, she would risk everything to be with him and leave her whole life behind, and if she didn’t, she would be without the one person she knew she could ever love, the one person who loved _her_. Suddenly she wished more than anything that her father was here. She just knew he would say what she needed to hear right now.

_It all comes down to priorities, Molly, and what you’re willing to give up. Could you live with everything in the world but him? Or have him and nothing else? In his own words, what matters the most?_

She studied him as she thought about this, and it occurred to her that he wasn’t asking her to do anything that he hadn’t already done himself. After all, when he faked his death, he had left everyone behind to take down Moriarty’s network. She remembered that she’d wished then in some ways that she could go with him. This time he was asking her to, and she had the option to decide whether she would leave everything for him or not.

And suddenly any fear she might have melted away and she knew exactly what to say. There was no other choice, really. She had been walking in this direction since the moment she met him, the moment she knew she loved him. “Yes,” she whispered.

His response came immediately and she found herself pulled tightly in his arms like he never ever wanted to let go. “Thank you, Molly Hooper,” he said softly. Her own arms slipped around him, and she rested her cheek against his shirt and she could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

It came to her mind then that she had now found her favorite place in the entire world.

* * *

Of course all too soon he released her to make phone calls. She understood and, after a encouraging pat on his shoulder, she went to her room and began to pack. She didn’t have any idea where they were about to go, so she tried to think of any possibilities and what she might need. The best course of action she thought was to pack clothes for both hot and cold weather. As she went about packing up her room, she felt a twinge of sadness. She didn’t regret her decision to go with him for an instant, but she would miss London and her flat quite a bit. She’d had some lovely times here and her father….her father was buried in England. Her heart felt more than a small pang at the thought of leaving that. But she heard Sherlock talking quickly in a different language from the other room and it reminded her why she’d made this decision in the beginning. As she finished the rest of her packing, she focused on her mind and heart on the love she had for him.

She’d just zippered up her suitcase when he came into the room. “Everything okay?” she asked.

He nodded and he managed to smile at her, though she could tell he was stressed. “Everything’s fine, Molly. A car will be here in the next hour to take us to our first destination. We just have quite a bit to do before it comes.”

“Well, you need to pack….”

“No, there’s more, Molly.”

She had the distinct impression she was missing something, so she studied him. After a second, his concern became clear to her. “Right. We can’t very well walk out of here looking like ourselves, can we? So what do you recommend? I’m sure disguises would help, but I -....”

“I didn’t call this a bolt-hole for nothing, Molly. I happen to have a suitcase full of items we can use in your spare room, but I believe changing hair might be helpful as well.”

She tried to piece what he was trying to say in her mind. “You want me to cut my hair.”

“No, I could do it for you.”

The thought of him cutting her hair and the absolute absurdity of this entire conversation made her want to laugh if she didn’t know it would likely hurt his feelings tremendously. She had always liked her long hair, but it wasn’t as if it couldn’t grow back in a few months. “Fine. You can cut it. If you’re sure you think it’s best.”

He gave her the most Sherlockian look she could imagine. “Why would I need to be sure?”

How could she explain this? “I mean, I’ll look different. There are…..some who like long hair.” Actually, Tom had wished sometimes her hair was even longer, but even she knew better than to mention ex-fiances in a situation like this.

He snorted. “And those some are stupid. I love who you are, not how you look.”

That was exactly the kind of possible insult wrapped up in a compliment that Sherlock did so well. After years of knowing him, she understood now that she always could choose how to take it. But as it happened she didn’t even need to, because his eyes widened and she knew he recognized how it could sound to her. “My….my sincere apologies, Molly. I didn’t mean that you weren’t-.....” He ran his hand through his hair before he looked straight in her eyes. “I didn’t meant that you aren’t….”

“Beautiful?” she prompted.

“....to me. Yes,” he said. “But I haven’t…..I haven’t made that clear to you, have I?”

_Your mouth’s too small now._

_You’ve put on three pounds since I’ve last seen you._

_Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth…._

No, indeed. He had not. He’d done the complete opposite, actually, but she thought it would be better not to say so.

By the remorseful expression on his face, he had realized it himself and quite a bit of sadness came to his eyes. “I am sorry, Molly. I will do my best to remedy that in the future,” he said. “But now we must concern ourselves with other matters.”

Unfortunately, that was all too true and so that’s exactly what they did. But secretly she wondered what ‘remedies’ he had in mind.

* * *

Whenever Molly tried to think about the rest of that afternoon afterward, she couldn’t. It all passed in such a blur, in a haze that could best be described as a dream. As a result, only specific details stood out in her mind:

The way he gently brushed her hair before he cut it. Naturally, because he was Sherlock, he could cut hair as well as he could do anything else. Now her hair touched her shoulders in a style that she immediately loved.  
.  
The fun they’d managed to have trying on disguises and deciding which cover identities to use.

The expression in his eyes when he kissed her seconds before they had to meet the car.

The car ride that Molly feared might turn into a car chase from _Fast and Furious_ , but thankfully did not due to his thorough planning. But he must have sensed her nervousness because he held her hand tightly until they were safely out of London.

And then they were boarding the small plane that would take them to their destination in Eastern Europe. Yes, indeed, it seemed strange that he picked that country, but as he said if you’re trying to escape the lion’s den, no one would expect you to go there first. And she couldn’t disagree with that logic.

They settled into their seats, and soon the plane was taking off. Molly looked out the tiny window and, as the buildings of London grew smaller and smaller, it occurred to her that this could be the last time she saw England. The thought pained her, but she felt him take her hand. She glanced at him, and he smiled at her. With that one smile, she knew that it would all be worth it. And so she smiled herself and squeezed his hand before she looked back out the window as the plane took her to another part of the world.

THE END


End file.
